Fall of Angels (The Saga of Recluce #6)(65)

Nylan glanced back at the cooling mess of metal. Beside him stood Huldran, just looking.

"Fireworks, yet?" asked Ryba from behind him. "How did you two manage that?"

"I haven't figured that out yet, but I was trying to form metal around a composite core-"

"The gray stuff-cormclit?" Nylan nodded.

"It's pretty heat-resistant in a directional way-that's why it's used as a hull backing," pointed out the marshal.

"Oh, frig . . ." The engineer shook his head. Next time, he'd have to cut the composite so that the heat-reflective side was to the inside of the groove. It made a stupid kind of sense, although he couldn't have given the explanation a good physicist could have.

"I take it you figured it out?" asked Ryba. "You have that look that says you're so stupid not to have realized it from the beginning." She paused. "No one else would ever figure out your mistakes if you weren't so upset about them." She laughed briefly. "What were you trying this time?"

"Another weapon."

Huldran eased away from the two. "Need to set these stones, ser, Marshal, before the mortar locks up."

"Go ahead," said Nylan.

"We'll need every new weapon we can get," Ryba said.

"We're about out of slug-thrower shells?" asked Nylan.

"Maybe fifty, seventy-five rounds left in personal weapons, about the same for the two rifles. That's not enough." She shrugged. "What were you trying to make?"

"One of those endurasteel composite bows."

"We could use some, but where did you get the idea?"

"Gerlich was muttering the other morning about the lack of accuracy and range with the native bows."

"He always mutters-when he's around."

Thunder rumbled across the skies, echoing back from Freyja, and fat raindrops began to fall.

"Excuse me. I need to get the laser under cover." Nylan began to disassemble the equipment. First the powerhead and cable went back to the fifth-level storage space-into an area half built into the central stone pedestal-then the meters, and finally, the firin cells themselves. Ryba helped him carry the cell assembly. After that he set the cooled and melted puddle of metal and composite in a corner of the uncompleted bathhouse. He might be able to use the mess in some fashion later . .. and he might not.

Then, through the scattered but big raindrops, he and Ryba walked up to the emergency generator, spinning in the fall wind. It too was failing, bearings squeaking, and power surging, but it still put power into the firin cell attached to the charger. Both charger and cell were protected by a framework of fir limbs covered with alternating layers of cannibalized lander tiles held in place with heavy stones.

"Still charging." Nylan carefully replaced the covering.

"You've made the power last longer than anyone thought possible," Ryba said.

Looking downhill at the tower, Nylan answered, "There's more to do, a lot more."

"There always will be, but Dyliess will appreciate it all. All of the guards will."

At the clop of hooves, both turned toward the narrow trail from the ridge, where Istril rode toward the front gate to the black tower.

"Trouble?" asked the engineer.

"I don't think so. She wasn't riding that fast."

They had almost reached the south side of the tower before the triangle gong rang. Clang! Clang!

"Those traders are back, Marshal," called Istril as she rode from the causeway toward Nylan and Ryba. "The first ones."

"Skiodra," Nylan recalled.

"He's the one. He's got nearly a score of men, and eight wagons."

"I told you we needed weapons," said Ryba dryly.

Nylan shrugged.

"Get a dozen marines," ordered Ryba, looking at Istril, "fully armed. Have the rifles stationed to sweep them if we need it."

"Gerlich is out hunting," pointed out Istril, "with half a squad."

"Get who you can." Ryba turned to Nylan. "You, too. You did so well last time that you can handle the trading."

Nylan shrugged, then headed to the washing area of the stream. He wished the bathhouse were completed. Then he laughed. The tower had gone more quickly than anyone could have anticipated, far more quickly, and he was still worrying, except it was about showers, and laundry tubs, and more jakes.

Ryba headed toward the stables. "I'll have a mount waiting for you."

"Thank you. I won't be too long."

After a quick wash and shave, with the attendant cuts, a return to the tower, and a change into his other shipsuit, he donned the slug-thrower he hoped he didn't have to use, and the black blade he had infused with black flux order. Then he walked down the stone steps, past the aroma of baking bread, and out the front gate of the tower.

As Ryba had promised, a mount was waiting, its reins held by Istril.

"They just left, ser, at a walk."

"Can we catch them by walking a bit faster?" asked Nylan. The not - quite - swaybacked gray whickered softly as he mounted.

"I think so." Istril grinned.

Nylan and the silver-haired marine with the warm smile joined the other eleven marines and Ryba halfway down the ridge toward the spot where the traders, dressed in the same quilted jackets and cloaks, waited by a single cart that flew a trading banner. Two were on foot before the cart, the remainder mounted behind the cart.